


The Yeti Conspiracy

by infinite_mirrors



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Christmas fic, Courf is usually good at figuring this shit out but not when Ferre is involved I guess, Ferre is Courf's hot new neighbor, M/M, R and Courf have a podcast, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 04:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17053109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_mirrors/pseuds/infinite_mirrors
Summary: Courfeyrac has a conspiracy podcast with his friend Grantaire, a cat named Yeti, and a new apartment, which came with a hot new neighbor. Courfeyrac doesn't tell that many people about his little crush; except for Grantaire, and all of their listeners. For the 2018 Les Mis Holiday Exchange.Now a webcomic at podtheorycomic.tumblr.com!





	The Yeti Conspiracy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cantando_siempre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/gifts).



> Sorry this is a few days late! I hope you enjoy this little Courferre holiday fic!

 

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, Martians, the Illuminati, lizard people and Elvis Presley. I’m your host, Courfeyrac—”

“And I’m your co-host, Grantaire.”

“—And you’re listening to Pod Theory: your one-stop podcast for all the conspiracies your government doesn’t want you to know about. So take the red pill, and let’s go down the rabbit hole together…”

Courfeyrac paused for a beat before continuing. Later, he would fade-in the podcast’s theme song immediately after the introduction, an eerie melody reminiscent of The X Files.

“Happy Tuesday, friends! Thanks for joining us. Grantaire, how are you doing today?”

“Great, except your cat crawled all over me earlier and is now sleeping in my lap.”

Courfeyrac let out an amused laugh and scratched Yeti behind the ears, eliciting a rumbling purr in response.

“What do you mean, ‘except?’ That’s an ideal situation!”

“Not when you’re allergic and also really have to pee,” Grantaire said, punctuating his statement with an explosive sneeze. Yeti flicked her ears back but otherwise did not move.

“Sounds like a you problem,” Courfeyrac quipped, but spared Grantaire by moving the pliant cat to his own lap. “You couldn’t have gone to the bathroom _before_ we started recording?”

“You know I couldn’t,” Grantaire said, practically leaping off the couch in his haste to get to the bathroom. “That menace is an immovable object, and my bladder is the unstoppable force.”

“Kind of reaching, but it works,” Courfeyrac said diplomatically, just as the door clicked shut behind Grantaire. “Well, just you and me now, folks. And Yeti. I should probably edit this out, but you know what? I’m going to keep it in, just to shame R for breaking the flow of the episode.

“While I have you all to myself, let me remind you how we do things here at Pod Theory. On Fridays, we upload full-length episodes about all things mysterious: cover-ups, conspiracies, cryptid of the week, uh... catastrophes… cupcakes… I’m out of alliterations. You get it. On Tuesdays, we read emails sent in by you, our dear listeners. We’ll remind you how to get in contact with us at the end of the episode, so stick around.”

Grantaire emerged from the bathroom and slid next to Courfeyrac on the couch. Yeti immediately stood up from Courfeyrac’s lap and resettled in Grantaire’s.

“Your cat is trying to kill me,” he said, stroking Yeti’s forehead.

“Perfect timing, R,” Courfeyrac said in lieu of response. “Why don’t you read our first email?”

Grantaire opened the shared document on his laptop, pulling up the emails they had decided on answering before the show.

“Alrighty, the topic line of this one is ‘Weird sighting in the woods: Sasquatch confirmed?’”

Courfeyrac made a skeptical noise.

“Hey now, let’s hear them out,” Grantaire said humorously. “Ahem. ‘Dear Pod Theorists, I have the craziest story. So, I was camping with my buddies over the weekend in the Cascades. We had set up the tent and were getting ready to light a fire when I had to go to the bathroom, so I excused myself and went into the woods to do my business—not too far away, but far enough that I couldn’t see our campsite anymore.

“Suddenly, I heard a branch break to my left. Just as I was turning to look, I saw a large, shaggy, brown shape move behind a tree. I told my friends what had happened and they all thought I was paranoid, or it was just a deer or something. I know what deer look like, and that was _not_ a deer. The craziest part is, when we woke up the next day, our cooler had been knocked over, and all our food was gone! Did I see a sasquatch? Or am I going crazy?’ Signed, ‘Scared in the woods.’”

Grantaire sighed and shook his head.

“I hate to break it to you, buddy,” he said. “But that was a bear.”

“It was _definitely_ a bear,” Courfeyrac agreed at a moderately higher pitch. “Oh my god, you’re lucky to be alive! You could have gotten _attacked by a bear_.”

“Why. The hell. Would you leave all your food out like that,” Grantaire said slowly. “You absolute buffoon. That is so stupid. You are in the forest. You know what lives in the forest?”

“ _Bears_ ,” Courfeyrac repeated for emphasis. “Jesus Christ, dude!”

“I love how this person saw a large animal in the forest, and their first thought was, ‘oh my god, Sasquatch?? Is that you?’”

“Please don’t go camping anymore,” Courfeyrac said solemnly. “You’re going to get yourself and your friends killed.”

“Alright, let’s move on,” Grantaire said. “What’s our next email?”

Courfeyrac pulled his laptop closer and peered at the email. “This one is titled ‘The Real Conspiracy.’ Ooh, intriguing.”

Grantaire let out a thoughtful _hmmm_ beside him.

“’Dear Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and of course, Yeti’—Aww, thanks for including her! She’s definitely part of the team.”

“Little known fact: Yeti is actually our sound editor,” Grantaire said, patting the cat in question fondly.

“’Your podcast is what gets me through my morning commute,’” Courfeyrac continued reading. “’Although it gets awkward sometimes when I burst out laughing on a packed train, but that’s not your fault. I just wanted to know, and I hope this doesn’t offend you: do you guys actually believe any of the things you talk about? Personally, I listen to this show because it’s funny and entertaining, and I think conspiracy theories are fun. However, nine out of ten times I think the subject matter is ridiculous and scientifically impossible. What do _you_ think of your topics, and have there ever been conspiracies you one hundred percent bought into? Have a great week and good luck to Courfeyrac with moving, I know how stressful that can be. Best, C.’”

“You know, I find it strange we haven’t gotten this question before,” Grantaire said. “I’ve been expecting it for a long time, but in a ruder way, you know?”

“Yeah, like: ‘I can tell you’re non-believers and hacks! How dare you!’”

“Exactly.”

“But this is worded very politely, so thank you, C,” Courfeyrac said. “What’s your answer, R?”

“I am a truth seeker and if you don’t believe a highly advanced, ancient, alien race lives in the core of the Earth then you should shut this off immediately, you coward,” Grantaire said bluntly. Courfeyrac, having taken a poorly-timed sip of tea, coughed and sputtered as he laughed.

“No, but really,” Grantaire said, slapping Courfeyrac on the back a few times. “This is a comedy podcast, and we don’t advertise it as anything else. It’s fun talking about this stuff and speculating and making up our own theories or whatever. But I’m a skeptic—and I also have common sense—so no, I don’t believe in any of this. Except maybe that ‘Francis Bacon was actually Shakespeare’ thing. Courfeyrac?”

“Yeeeaaahh,” he said, stretching the word out as he sought the right way to phrase his thoughts. “We know some of our listeners are more, uh, open-minded about these things. And that’s great! I think we should all be a little more open-minded. Just because science hasn’t found a way to explain it yet, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

“That being said, I have a healthy amount of skepticism, too. I didn’t get perfect grades in biology class or anything, but I know how to use the scientific method, and I think that's key here. Don’t just go around believing everything you hear, like our friend in the woods. Evaluate all the information and reach your own conclusion; and if that conclusion is ‘I don’t know,’ that’s perfectly fine! In fact, I think that’s the most scientific answer you can have to anything. I don’t _know_ if aliens are out there, I don’t _know_ if there’s a demon in that house, but it sure is fun to think about!”

“I want to believe,” Grantaire intoned.

“Exactly.” Courfeyrac winked at him. “At the end of the day, we’re just having fun talking about cryptids and moon landings. Whether or not you believe any of it, is up to you.”

“Also, glad C brought this up: how _is_ the move going?” Grantaire asked.

Courfeyrac feigned a cheery voice. “Oh, super smooth, absolutely no stress or chaos or bumps in the road.” He scoffed. “Said no-one, ever. I’m about halfway packed and we only have the moving truck for three hours tomorrow. Plus moving costs mean I’m going to be living on rice and beans for a while.”

“Don’t worry, listeners, Courf is just being dramatic, as usual,” Grantaire said, patting Courfeyrac’s knee. “Some friends, including myself, will be helping him move, and no-one’s going to let him starve until his next paycheck.”

“Ah, friends. The best free labor a man can get.”

“Ahem.”

“Okay, almost free,” Courfeyrac amended. “They do accept wine and pizza as a form of payment, though.”

“Hey everyone, you’re all invited to Courfeyrac’s house-warming party! The address is eighty twommff—”

“And now a word from our sponsors!”

 

 

*************************

 

 

With a small grunt, Courfeyrac adjusted his grip on the boxes in his arms. Maybe carrying three at once was a bit overambitious, but he was tired of walking to and from his car over and over and he just wanted to be _done_. He wouldn’t be surprised if his feet had carved out a path in the road leading to the building, like a river eroding a canyon over thousands of years. Thousands of footsteps. Ugh.

The others had gone home once all the furniture had been moved in and there was no more heavy lifting to be done. Not that they hadn’t offered to stay; after Courfeyrac had returned the moving truck, there was still a decent amount of possessions that needed to be brought over, all packed in black garbage bags and cardboard boxes marked with words like “books” and “misc. crap” in Sharpie. Grantaire, Feuilly, Bahorel, Cosette and Marius had been happy to continue to help, but Courfeyrac had insisted he could do the rest on his own. It was a weekday, after all, and they all had better things to do. With the promise of a house-warming party in the near future, he had sent them home.

Now, after two trips to his old apartment and countless treks between his car and the door, his arms sore and his body feeling uncomfortably sticky, Courfeyrac deeply regretted declining his friends’ help.

At least there was an elevator.

“Hold the door, please!” he called over the boxes stacked to his forehead. He peered around the side of his cargo and managed to make it onto the elevator with only a small wobble.

“Fifth floor, please,” he sighed once he was inside, exhausted. _Only a few more trips_ , he told himself. _Then I can shower and sleep for a year._

“Sure,” a smooth, polite voice replied. A moment later, a fraction of the weight holding Courfeyrac down was lifted, and his vision was no longer impeded by cardboard.

“Let me help you with that,” the voice said, only now the voice was coming out of a face that Courfeyrac could see.

Courfeyrac swallowed impulsively. It was a really nice face.

He processed cheekbones, glasses, and strong jaw, in that order; the pieces all fit neatly together on dark canvas in an open, friendly expression.

“Oh,” Courfeyrac said intelligently. “Uh, thank you.”

The exceedingly attractive stranger looked at him curiously, a line appearing between his furrowed eyebrows.

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

Courfeyrac did not know him from somewhere. If Courfeyrac had known him from somewhere, Courfeyrac would have remembered him, because he was unbelievably, stupidly hot.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “I, uh, I just moved here.”

The stranger smiled ironically, looking at the boxes and back at Courfeyrac. “Yeah, I figured that.”

“Right.” Courfeyrac laughed awkwardly and thought about punching himself in the face. “Um. I’m Courfeyrac.”

A flash of some unrecognizable emotion flickered across the stranger’s face, but it quickly disappeared again. He shifted the box onto one arm and held out his hand. “Combeferre.”

Courfeyrac looked down at his hand, then at the boxes occupying his own arms; his were a little too heavy to transfer to one side. Combeferre seemed to realize his error a fraction of a second later, but before he could sheepishly withdraw his hand, Courfeyrac improvised and stuck out an elbow. Combeferre laughed and made a show of shaking it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Combeferre.”

“Likewise.”

With a _ping_ , the elevator doors slid open to the fourth floor.

“Oh, this is my stop,” Combeferre said. Courfeyrac waited, but Combeferre showed no intention of moving from where he stood.

“…Aren’t you going to get off?”

Combeferre pushed the ‘door close’ button and glanced at him. “You have more boxes to carry, right?”

“Oh, no, I mean,” Courfeyrac stammered. “It’s only, uh, there’s only a few left, it’s fine, really…”

“It’s no trouble. We’re neighbors now, right?”

A moment later, the doors opened again onto the fifth floor. Courfeyrac quickly got off and shuffled to his door, Combeferre on his heels. Either the universe was throwing him a bone or it was fucking with him, because Courfeyrac couldn’t think of what he had done to deserve such luck. Maybe Combeferre was actually a serial killer, and this was how he lured his victims.

“You don’t have to,” he continued, fumbling with the door handle for a minute until Combeferre politely scooted him out of the way and opened it for him.

“It’s fine,” Combeferre insisted, setting the box down in the living room. He whistled lowly as he surveyed the masses of bags and boxes cluttering the space. “You brought all this in by yourself?”

“My friends helped with the furniture,” Courfeyrac said, setting his own load down. “But I didn’t want to keep them too long, you know?”

Combeferre hummed neutrally, giving him an appraising look. With an embarrassed start, Courfeyrac realized what he probably looked like: dirty, sweaty, and exhausted nearly to the point of falling over. His hair was probably a disaster, too. Not the most ideal state to meet the handsome downstairs neighbor-slash-potential serial killer.

A white poof scuttled across the hardwood floor and wove itself between Combeferre’s legs, startling him.

“Oh,” he exclaimed, crouching down and letting the cat sniff curiously at his hand. “Hi, there.”

Courfeyrac smiled and came closer, gathering her in his arms. “This is Yeti.”

“Hi, Yeti,” Combeferre said, scratching her under her chin. She immediately began to purr loudly, and some of Courfeyrac’s reservations were abated. Yeti wouldn’t respond so well to a heartless killer; animals could sense those things, probably. Right?

He observed Combeferre discreetly as he doted on Yeti. Attractive, nice, probably not a murderer, and his cat liked him? Courfeyrac needed to start planning his proposal. Fireworks would have to be involved, and champagne, and maybe a musical number.

“Why don’t you keep your human company while I move in the rest of his things?”

“Hear that, Yeti?” Courfeyrac said, still daydreaming about their beach wedding. “Wanna hang out with me while the nice neighbor—wait, what?”

He swiveled around, watching Combeferre start towards the door.

“You look like you’re two boxes away from death,” Combeferre said. “I mean that in the best way possible. Is your car unlocked?”

“Hold on, wait,” Courfeyrac let Yeti jump neatly out of his arms and ran a hand through his hair, which, yep, utter disaster confirmed. “You… I mean, you can’t just... you shouldn’t—”

Combeferre raised a single eyebrow and waited patiently for Courfeyrac to string together a coherent sentence.

“I just met you, like, five minutes ago!” Courfeyrac finally burst out.

“I won’t steal your car, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Combeferre said reasonably.

The situation was rapidly spiraling out of hand.

“It’s not that, it’s just.” Courfeyrac shook his arms out, aware that he was floundering. “I don’t know… you’re practically a stranger and you’re just going to move all my stuff in? For free? Without me even asking? It’s weird. I feel weird.”

“Buy me a drink and we’ll call it even,” Combeferre said with a devastating smirk, and left.

...Did he just get asked out on a date? Or was Combeferre just being friendly? People bought each other drinks as a thank you all the time, right?

With nothing left to do but be consumed with questions of intent, Courfeyrac collapsed onto his couch and closed his eyes, wondering when he had lost control of his life to the point where he was letting handsome strangers handle his possessions with zero supervision. He decided it was the day he and Grantaire had drunk too much and decided to make a podcast together.

He must have been closer to passing out than he realized, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up to a paw tapping insistently against his face.

“Mmm, hang on honey, I’ll feed you in a minute,” he mumbled, rubbing his tired eyes.

“I have food at my place, but I appreciate the offer,” an amused voice answered.

Courfeyrac’s eyes snapped open. Sure enough, Combeferre was holding Yeti up to his face, smiling slyly. A quick glance around his apartment told him that Combeferre had brought the rest of his belongings in while Courfeyrac had apparently taken a power nap.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” he said, flushing. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s alright,” Combeferre said. “You looked like you needed the rest.”

Courfeyrac groaned. “Ugh, I really do look like a mess, don’t I?”

Combeferre winced, eyes skimming over his face and tangled hair. “No, uh… Not at all.”

“You are way too nice. I look like a gremlin.”

Yeti scrambled out of Combeferre’s grip and trotted into the kitchen, meowing plaintively. Right. Where did he put the bag with the cat food…? Reluctantly, he dragged himself off the couch and ambled to the kitchen, sorting through the boxes on the counter.

“Thanks for helping me,” he said distractedly, rummaging through a box labeled ‘the white menace.’ Bingo. He withdrew a small bowl and a can of wet food. “You really didn’t have to go through all the trouble.”

“I would have felt guilty if you ended up literally dying from exertion,” Combeferre said, giving him a crooked smile. Suave motherfucker. “Anyway, I guess I should get going.”

“Oh.” Courfeyrac stopped, half-opened can of cat food poised in his hand. “Okay. Yeah, of course.”

Combeferre started making his way toward the door, and Courfeyrac’s heart picked up in distress. _What are you doing??_ His brain yelled at him. _Stop him, you fool!_

“I’m having a house-warming party on Saturday,” he said a little too loudly. Combeferre stopped at the door and looked in his direction. “I don’t have the details yet, but… we can exchange numbers?”

He summoned up the charm he knew he had buried somewhere and offered Combeferre a coy smile. “Besides, I owe you that drink, right?”

Yeti let out a pleading meow again, completely ruining his attempt at flirting, and Courfeyrac quickly emptied the contents of the can into her food bowl before setting it down on the floor. _Do not ruin this for me_ , he thought loudly in her direction. Yeti bumped his hand with her forehead and dug into her food, oblivious. Because she was a cat.

“Sure,” Combeferre said, and when Courfeyrac looked up he was fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Here.”

 _Victory!_ Confetti and balloons flying in his head, Courfeyrac typed his information into the proffered phone before handing it back to Combeferre, hyper-aware of their fingers brushing against each other. Combeferre looked at him for what Courfeyrac thought (hoped) was a beat too long before moving back to the front door.

“Goodnight, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac gave him his dimply-est smile. “Goodnight, Combeferre.”

He was still staring at the door when his phone chimed a minute later with a new message.

_‘Looking forward to the party, neighbor! Get some sleep. -C.’_

He had a feeling he was going to like living here.

 

 

*************************

 

 

“Happy Friday, listeners! I hope you all had a great week that didn’t involve relocating all of your earthly possessions and subsequently being unable to raise your arms over your head for _days_.”

“Hey, man, we offered to stay and help you move the rest of your stuff,” Grantaire said unapologetically. “But you were all, ‘oh nooo, it’s fine! You guys already helped so much! I just have a few boxes left,’ et cetera, et cetera. Which, by the way, if you all could see the state of Courfeyrac’s new apartment right now, you’d agree ‘a few boxes’ is like calling Everest a ‘little bit of a hike.’”

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” Courfeyrac said. “You were right, I should have accepted the help, mea culpa.”

“But hey, it wasn’t a complete drag, right?” A teasing tone entered Grantaire’s voice as he elbowed Courfeyrac in the side. “You ended up getting some unexpected help, hmm?”

“I don’t know why you’re making it sound so suggestive, but yes,” Courfeyrac said, shooting Grantaire an amused look. “I ran into a neighbor who was kind enough to help me out toward the end.”

“And he was, and I’m directly quoting your text to me the next day…” To Courfeyrac’s horror, Grantaire pulled out his phone and opened his messages. “’The hottest piece of man I have ever—‘”

“—Okay, let’s not—”

“’—Had the honor of laying my eyes on—‘”

“—This is really unnecessary—”

“’—and you know I’m not a religious man, but—‘”

 _Groan_.

“’—I feel God has truly blessed my new home with his presence, Amen.’”

“I hope you know I feel really betrayed right now,” Courfeyrac said. “I wrote that to you in confidence.”

“And yet I know you’re not going to edit it out,” Grantaire said knowingly. “Are you?”

They stared at each other silently for a total of five seconds.

“I knew it!” Grantaire cried. Courfeyrac felt he was obligated to protest.

“Only because I’m too tired to edit out all your shenanigans,” he said. “And because our listeners have been messaging me non-stop ever since that vague tweet you sent out, _Grantaire_.”

“Oh, right. Sorry about that.”

“You are not.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Okay, I’m not. But can you blame me for being excited about this meet-cute? You know I live for the drama.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t see me going around exposing your obsession with that guy from the gym.”

“Oh, please,” Grantaire said dismissively. “That’s old news, and we both know it isn’t going anywhere with Gym Guy. Well, isn’t going anywhere _good_.”

“We really need to work on your flirting tactics,” Courfeyrac said thoughtfully. “Goading someone to fury isn’t the best way to get a date.”

“But it _is_ a great way to get them to release all that tension in a fitness class, where it’s healthy,” Grantaire said astutely, then completely undid his professional reasoning with a dreamy sigh. “And he’s so hot when he’s angry.”

“Okay, we’ve really gone off the rails with this sidebar,” Courfeyrac said. “For those of you still listening, this _is_ a conspiracy theory podcast, and we _will_ get to the actual conspiracies, I swear.”

“Right, let’s save the romantic drama for Twitter,” Grantaire said. He caught Courfeyrac’s look and put up his hands in surrender. “Kidding, kidding!”

Courfeyrac shook his head in fond exasperation and pulled up their references for the episode’s topic.

“A lot of you have tweeted this topic at us, and we’re finally doing it. Today, we’ll be talking about the Denver International Airport…”

 

 

*************************

 

 

Saturday night, Courfeyrac ordered pizza and opened his door to his friends, who enthusiastically packed themselves into his modest apartment and emptied several bottles of wine in quick succession. Unexpectedly, everyone brought a house-warming gift; Bahorel gave him a bread knife (“because you have to stop slicing your bread with steak knives, man, you’re an adult”), Feuilly presented him with an electric blanket, and Marius and Cosette placed a beautiful, glass-blown vase in the center of the table (“I forgot the flowers,” Marius said sheepishly, but the vase was aesthetically pleasing enough on its own). Grantaire went above and beyond and got him sound-proofing foam panels for the spare bedroom, which Courfeyrac had been planning on making their new recording room.

“Aren’t these crazy expensive?” Courfeyrac said, examining a panel.

“Well, they’re not just a gift for you. They’re for both of us,” Grantaire said. “I’ve been planning on getting them for a while.”

Courfeyrac wrapped him in a tight hug. He had the best friends.

“Okay, okay,” Grantaire chuckled, squeezing back momentarily before pulling away. “I’m going to get more wine before you start crying or something.”

Courfeyrac laughed and discreetly wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. Crying? Who, _moi?_

He was on his third glass of wine, feeling warm and happy while listening to one of Feuilly’s crazy customer service stories, when the doorbell rang. His stomach flipped nervously. Everyone he had invited was here, except for one person.

Courfeyrac went to open the door, absently handing his wine to Grantaire on the way (who shrugged and poured it into his own half-empty glass). It took a few deep breaths and mental slaps before he could swing the door open with a flourish, hoping belatedly he hadn’t overdone it with the alcohol. He wasn’t a lightweight, exactly, but he hadn’t eaten much all day and it had been a while since he had done any moderate amount of drinking.

Combeferre smiled upon seeing him, and it honestly just wasn’t fair. He _had_ to know what he was doing with those form-fitting jeans, the moss-green cashmere sweater, the rolled-up sleeves—

Courfeyrac’s brain stuttered at the sight of his bare forearms. Tattoos. He had tattoo sleeves? Was he trying to kill him?

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Combeferre said. “These are for you.”

Courfeyrac realized he was being handed a fragrant bouquet of flowers. He brought him flowers. He was dressed like _that_ and he brought him _flowers_.

“How dare you,” were the unfortunate words that spilled out of Courfeyrac’s mouth, followed immediately by the feeling of absolute mortification.

Okay, maybe he was a bit of a lightweight.

In the seconds that ticked mercilessly by, he watched Combeferre watching him, seemingly at a loss for words, and prayed to whatever deity would listen to just give him a stroke or something and end this.

“I mean,” Courfeyrac stuttered, desperately trying to salvage the situation. “How dare you… be the last person to show up? No, that’s not better. I’m sorry, there was wine.”

Combeferre let out a burst of laughter, and Courfeyrac sagged in relief. If he just blamed all his brain fumbles around Combeferre on alcohol, he might get lucky and appear only slightly dysfunctional. A murmur came from behind Combeferre, who glanced back and let out an embarrassed ‘oh’ before looking back at Courfeyrac.

“May we come in?” he asked, because apparently there was a person behind his back whom Courfeyrac had failed to notice.

In his defense, Combeferre was rather tall. And distracting.

He hastily stepped out of the way, but before he could so much as utter an apology, Marius came dashing out of nowhere and snatched the flowers out of Courfeyrac’s hands with a grin.

“Thanks, these are perfect!” he exclaimed, and rushed off, presumably to put them in the empty vase.

Combeferre stared after him. “Um.”

And just like that, the universe righted itself, and Courfeyrac found himself feeling much more capable and in control of the situation. Thank God for Marius and his uncanny ability to make everyone around him look exceptionally socially competent by comparison.

“Don’t worry about him,” Courfeyrac said, opening the door wider. “Please, come in!”

“Thanks,” Combeferre said, ducking inside and allowing the figure who had been obscured by his back to step in after him. The man was all blond curls and classically handsome features, looking like he had stepped off the cover of some glossy fashion magazine with his long legs and red overcoat. “Oh, Courfeyrac, this is—”

“Enjolras?” Grantaire exclaimed from across the room, a comically horrified expression on his face.

The blond man’s face twisted in confusion. “Grantaire?”

Courfeyrac connected the dots a second later. “Wait. You’re…?” He looked at Combeferre. “And you…?”

Grantaire had already maneuvered his way to the door and aimed a too-wide grin at Enjolras, who still looked confused but smiled back uncertainly.

“Hey, Courf,” Grantaire said. “This is my kick-boxing student, Enjolras! Who is here! In your apartment! And it’s not weird at all!”

“He sure is,” Courfeyrac agreed, shaking his hand. “Hi, I’m Courfeyrac. Grantaire doesn’t shut up about you.”

Enjolras glanced in Grantaire’s direction, appropriately baffled. “Really?”

“Haha, hey, you’re funny, Courf,” Grantaire said frantically, shooting him a wide-eyed look. “Enjy, how about we go this way, away from this madman who will tell you nothing but lies? Let me take your coat… Why are you here again?”

Courfeyrac turned to look again at Combeferre, who did not seem nearly as confused as he should have been at the turn of events.

“Enjolras is a good friend of mine,” Combeferre said by way of explaining, shifting on his feet and not meeting Courfeyrac’s gaze. “Uh, I thought you two might get along, so I… invited him? I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

“No, sure, that’s fine,” Courfeyrac said, still trying to puzzle out the situation. “The more the merrier. Crazy that he and my friend know each other, right?”

“Yeah, bizarre.” Combeferre shrugged and rolled his eyes as if to say, ‘small world, right?’ Courfeyrac squinted at him, unconvinced. He smelled something fishy. Not Combeferre’s cologne, which was really nice and made him want to bury his face in his sweater.

The situation, though. That was fishy.

“Courfeyrac,” Bahorel said loudly, mouth full of pizza. “Are you going to introduce us to your friend?”

He supposed he would have to shelve the mystery for now.

 

 

*************************

 

 

“Dear entities human and alien, solid and non-corporeal, welcome to Pod Theory.”

“Coming to you from our new recording studio, aka Courfeyrac’s new apartment! Pretty sweet digs you got here, Courf, my man.”

“Thanks, R.”

Grantaire pushed off the table and spun a few times in his swivel chair. “So how are you liking the place? I think your house-warming party was a success.”

“Maybe more of a success for you…” Courfeyrac trailed off suggestively, waggling his eyebrows.

Grantaire planted one foot on the floor to stop his idle spinning.

“I guess you could say that,” he said, suddenly adopting the same dreamy expression he always got when _he_ was mentioned.

“Grantaire here got a date, everyone,” Courfeyrac announced proudly. “With whom, you ask? Why, none other than the fabled Gym Guy! Hold for applause.”

Grantaire laughed, face reddening. “Yeah, so everyone on Twitter can shut up about _that_ and move on to torturing Courf. Tell them how it was that Gym Guy ended up at _your_ house-warming party.”

“Believe it or not, it was not a set-up on my part,” Courfeyrac said. “Plot twist! Turns out Gym Guy is best friends with my new neighbor—”

“Otherwise known as Hot Neighbor.”

“—and he brought Gym Guy along to the party. Crazy, right?”

“I generally don’t believe in fate or whatever,” Grantaire said. “But that’s a pretty crazy coincidence.”

“Perhaps… too crazy.”

“Not this again…”

“Out of all the people to invite—which, by the way, never got a solid explanation for why Hot Neighbor invited someone else in the first place,” Courfeyrac said pointedly. “He invited Gym Guy? _Your_ Gym Guy?”

“Not everything is a conspiracy theory, Courf,” Grantaire said. “I teach at a small, local gym. Where local people go. I’ve run into a lot of students outside of class.”

“Okay, but why would Co—Hot Neighbor invite him in the first place?”

“I don’t know, Courf,” Grantaire said, exasperated. “Social anxiety? Not wanting to go alone to a party where he didn’t know anyone?”

Courfeyrac fell silent.

“Oh. I actually, uh, hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted.

“Yeah, because you’re the most extroverted person I know,” Grantaire said. “You’re like the golden retriever of people.”

Courfeyrac sank down into his seat, pouting. He supposed it was possible he had made it out to be a bigger deal than it really was in his head. It wasn’t his fault; he had the Too Much gene.

“Don’t give me that look,” Grantaire said, rolling his chair into Courfeyrac’s like a bumper car. Courfeyrac’s hands shot out to grip the desk before he fell over. “It was still a pretty neat coincidence, and you’re honor-bound to do a dramatic re-telling of it at our wedding.”

“Wow, one date and you’re already hearing wedding bells, huh?”

“Oh, please. I knew I wanted to marry him way before that,” Grantaire said. “Don’t tell Hot Neighbor I said that.”

“Obviously.” Courfeyrac snorted. “You sabotage your relationships enough on your own.”

“Ouch. That one hit a little too close to home.”

“Well, he obviously still likes you despite your best attempts to scare him away for life, so there’s hope.”

“I think he thinks I have ‘potential’ or something,” Grantaire mused. “I’m sure I’ll rid him of that notion pretty quickly.”

Courfeyrac looked at him in concern. Grantaire was still using the same light tone, but he could see by the subtle change in his expression that he had hit a sensitive topic.

“Hey, I didn’t mean that sabotaging thing,” he said seriously. “And don’t say shit like that. If Gym Guy only likes you because he thinks you’re a project, then he’s not worth it. I don’t think that’s what’s going on here, though.”

Grantaire maintained his aloof air, but he looked sideways at Courfeyrac. “You think so?”

“Nah, he seemed totally into you,” Courfeyrac said. “The you now, not some ‘potential’ version of you.”

“Thanks, man. Hey, could you cut this part out?” Grantaire said, self-consciously running a hand over his stubbly cheek.

“Oh my God, I forgot we were even recording,” Courfeyrac said with a laugh. “Yeah, of course I’ll cut it out.”

“Alright, let’s get back into it.” Grantaire crossed an ankle over his knee and settled back into his ‘podcaster’ voice. “I’m going to put a poll on Instagram: ‘Do you think Courfeyrac’s neighbor is actually a member of the Men in Black?’ Yes or no.”

“Okay, enough about my poor neighbor who has nothing to do with any of this. Our first email comes to us once again from C, who wrote to us last week about the biggest conspiracy of all: this very podcast.”

Grantaire laughed. “We did, by the way, get a few angry tweets about that one. I think we lost some listeners with our logic and reasoning.”

“Yeah, the hardcore monster hunters and Da Vinci code-breakers have left the building,” Courfeyrac quipped. “C writes: ‘Hi humans and feline’—ha, cute—‘thanks for answering my last email so honestly. It’s a relief to know you’re not actually obsessive conspirators, because that would have made for an awkward meeting if we were to ever run into each other in public. Glad to hear Courfeyrac relocated successfully and with minimal trauma. Remember to lock your door, though, because sometimes drafts can open doors and you wouldn’t want Yeti to get out.’”

“This person has their priorities straight,” Grantaire said, who had gone back to swiveling around in his chair. “Don’t lock your door because some rando might get in and steal all your stuff, lock it so the cat won’t get out.”

“Oh, our building is pretty secure,” Courfeyrac said absently, wondering now if he had remembered to lock his door after Grantaire had come over. “Yeti wouldn’t be able to get outside unless someone was on their way in or out. There _are_ six floors of hallways she could wander into, though.”

There was a pause.

“I locked the door after myself,” Grantaire said flatly, easily guessing his thoughts.

They looked at each other and burst out laughing. “You know me too well.”

“Apparently our entire fanbase knows you too well, if our listeners are reminding you to lock your fucking door,” Grantaire said, still laughing.

“Ugh, my neighbor told me the same thing the other day,” Courfeyrac remembered, blushing.

“ _Did he_ , now?”

“There was catnip at the farmer’s market so he got some for Yeti,” he explained. “And when he came by the door was one hundred percent cracked open because I guess I drank idiot juice that morning. He lectured me for like twenty minutes about it.”

Grantaire’s laughter had morphed into wheezing gasps.

“I need an alarm system or something. Every time I walk through my front door, I need my phone to yell at me to lock it. Are you done yet?”

Grantaire coughed a few times to cover the remaining giggles. “Completely. Please, continue.”

“’My question this week is: how did you two get into the world of zany conspiracies and cryptozoology?’” Courfeyrac read on. “’It seems like a very niche interest. Have a great week, C.’”

“Oh man, this brings me back,” Grantaire said wistfully. “The good old days, right, Courf?”

“Grantaire and I used to stay up late watching true crime documentaries,” Courfeyrac said. “Because, believe it or not, I went to Law School for, like, two seconds.”

“And I just like true crime,” Grantaire chimed in. “Morbid curiosity and all.”

“So we found a documentary on the Kennedy assassination,” Courfeyrac continued. “And that’s where the conspiracies came in. We found it super interesting.”

“And _hilarious_. You all know some of the crazy theories out there.”

“That turned into watching stuff on unsolved cases,” Courfeyrac said. “Docuseries, YouTube, TV, you name it. And then it just kind of… morphed into all of this. Grantaire was the one who brought up cryptids, I think.”

“Mothman,” Grantaire said, counting off names on his fingers. “Jersey Devil. Vampires. Nessie. I ate that shit up.”

“And, by extension, I also ate that shit up. I’d dropped out of law school by then, so I had a lot of time on my hands.” Courfeyrac smiled. “A piece of advice, listeners, from me to you: if you don’t like what you’re doing, stop fucking doing it! Oh, you hate your job? Quit! Are you only studying a subject because your parents want you to and you actually can’t stand it? Quit! It’s your life, my friends, don’t waste it doing things that make you unhappy. The rest will fall into place.”

Grantaire applauded him as soon as he was finished.

“And with that truly moving motivational speech,” he said, winking at Courfeyrac. “Let’s have a word from our sponsors.”

 

 

*************************

 

 

Courfeyrac stared at his balcony, at a loss. He didn’t quite know how to process the situation.

Approximately twenty minutes ago, he had let Yeti out onto the balcony, like he had done a hundred times before. She liked looking at the birds, and Courfeyrac liked being able to use the kitchen without fear of tripping over her every time he turned around.

He continued to stare at the balcony. The very conspicuously empty balcony.

Okay.

Courfeyrac shut the door, then turned and swept his gaze across the apartment.

“Yeti?”

Maybe he had let her in earlier, and forgot? He was no Marius, but he could space out occasionally if something was on his mind. He checked under the couch and behind the ficus, then in the kitchen and hallway. He looked under his bed and in his closet. No Yeti.

Nervously, he stole a glance at the front door. Locked, as he had made triple sure when he came home earlier that day.

He went back out onto the still-empty balcony, baffled and starting to get worried. Could she have jumped…?

Courfeyrac’s heart stuck in his throat as he grasped the railing and looked down onto the street. No, she wouldn’t jump from that high up. She had never tried it at their old apartment. Courfeyrac took a deep breath and willed his nerves to calm down. She absolutely would not have jumped down.

In fact, Yeti had never been an escape artist. Sometimes she ran out into the hall when Courfeyrac came home, but she always came back inside when Courfeyrac called her. She was a spoiled indoor cat, perfectly content to curl up in her spot on the couch and sleep the day away.

_So then, where was she?_

Courfeyrac was on his third sweep of the apartment, calling out Yeti’s name while opening cabinets and drawers, when there was a knock at his door. He looked up from where he was crouched on the kitchen floor (searching, unsuccessfully, under the sink), and compulsively glanced at the mess around him. His living space looked like it had been raided by someone looking for something very specific. Which, technically, it had been.

Tired and growing more anxious by the second, Courfeyrac got up and went to answer the door.

To his surprise, Combeferre was standing in the hallway, his hair damp like he had just gotten out of the shower. Even more surprising was the rumbling ball of fur tucked under his arm, blinking serenely at him.

“I found this on my balcony,” Combeferre said mildly, holding Yeti out to him. She mewed happily. “I believe it belongs to you.”

“Yeti!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, taking her into his arms. He quickly ushered Combeferre inside and shut the door after him. “What… she was _where_ , now?”

“My balcony, yeah.” Combeferre sounded amused, at least, and not irritated at the unexpected errand he had been saddled with. “Unless you somehow pulled off a very impressive prank, I think she must have jumped down from yours onto mine.”

“What the fuck,” Courfeyrac murmured, staring at Yeti, who was now languidly sharpening her claws on the scratching post. “Why would you do that, you ridiculous cat?”

“I have a bird feeder on my balcony,” Combeferre said. “Maybe she saw some birds and got excited.”

“Oh, my god.”

“She’s a sweet girl.” Combeferre’s smile fell as he looked at the overturned cabinets and furniture around him. “You were looking for her for a while, weren’t you? I was in the shower so I didn’t notice her until a few minutes ago. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry,” Courfeyrac was quick to say, not liking the contrite expression on Combeferre’s face. “She’s here now, and she’s fine. Thank you so much for bringing her back.”

“Well, it was really hard not to just keep her,” Combeferre said, the guilty look giving way to a mischievous smile. “But then I wouldn’t have had the excuse to come see you.”

Courfeyrac’s heart picked up its pace in his chest. That was definitely flirting. For sure. Right?

“Hey, I know this is kind of out of the blue,” he said, licking his lips uncertainly. “But what are you doing tonight?”

 

 

*************************

 

 

The bar was dim and quiet, the soft, jazzy piano music only broken by the occasional clatter of a cocktail shaker as a drink was being made. Aside from the two of them, the bar’s patrons consisted of smatterings of couples and friends clustered in groups of two or three, not enough to make much noise between them. As such, the atmosphere felt warm and intimate; _too_ intimate for just a friendly outing, Courfeyrac’s brain supplied helpfully.

 _No, stop right there_ , he mentally scolded himself. Nobody had said the word ‘date,’ so he had no reason to treat it like one. He didn’t even know for certain if Combeferre was into guys, although he considered his gaydar close to infallible.

The thing was, if it were anyone else, Courfeyrac would be in full Wooing Mode. He liked Combeferre, and Combeferre seemed to like him, at least enough for Courfeyrac to try his luck. But Combeferre wasn’t just a stranger he met on the street. He lived one floor down from him. His ceiling was Courfeyrac’s floor. Plus, his best friend was dating Grantaire, which meant their social circles were officially tangled together.

The stakes were too high to take the risk. He couldn’t treat this as a date, no matter how much he wanted to. He had to be absolutely _positive_ Combeferre was interested in him before he could even consider making a move, and so far he was only at about sixty percent certainty.

“Wow, an astronomy lab?” Courfeyrac leaned forward in interest, resting his chin in his hand. He fought to keep his tone from getting too flirty. “That’s so cool!”

Combeferre chuckled and shrugged off the compliment. The candlelight cast dramatic shadows across his face, highlighting his strong features and lighting up his eyes. “It’s mostly graphs and calculations.”

“That’s important research you’re doing,” Courfeyrac said, taking a sip of his whiskey sour. “You know, for science and the final frontier and all that.”

“And all that,” Combeferre agreed, regarding Courfeyrac with a warm expression that made his toes curl. “So, what do you do?”

Courfeyrac nervously took another sip of his drink to delay his answer. He usually didn’t mind telling people about the podcast—was enthusiastic, even—but the idea of Combeferre listening to him gush about his “hot neighbor” for three straight episodes was about as appealing as squeezing lemon juice directly into his eyes.

“I, uh,” Courfeyrac said, pulling at a loose string on the cuff of his sweater. What was vague enough to obscure the truth, but detailed enough to be a satisfying answer? “I work in the… entertainment business.”

Combeferre raised a curious eyebrow. “Like… television?”

“Uhhh, radio, more like,” Courfeyrac said, hearing his voice go into a higher pitch. He cleared his throat quietly. “It’s, uh, it’s not that interesting. Tell me more about the cosmos. Found any crazy new planets recently?”

Combeferre gave him a long, searching look, seeming somewhat disappointed, but thankfully didn’t push it.

“Actually, there’s this one star system…”

He would tell him eventually, Courfeyrac mentally told himself. He would just have to wait until they’ve been friends for a while, so they could listen and laugh together about the little crush he had harbored back then and have no awkward feelings. So, like, a year, minimum.

 

 

*************************

 

 

“Okay, dear listeners, before we get to the emails, we wanted to address something,” Courfeyrac said on a cold, damp Tuesday in December. “We’ve seen all the tweets and we’ve read all your messages, we _know_ you guys want updates on Hot Neighbor and Gym Guy. And we’ve been giving you radio silence for a few weeks now, which we know is frustrating. But the thing is, these are real people, and we didn’t think continuing to talk about them like this without their knowledge was cool. You know?”

“Actually, I’ve got some news on that front,” Grantaire said with a grin. “Some of you probably can see this coming, if you follow me on Instagram. I told Enjolras pretty early on about the podcast, so he’s in the loop now. He doesn’t listen or anything, since our content isn’t really his jam, but he’s cool with me talking about him on here. Which is why I just used his name.”

“And also why you’ve been posting nothing but disgustingly cute photos on Instagram recently. But hey, that’s great, R,” Courfeyrac said genuinely. “Can we expect regular updates about that now?”

“Absolutely. But nothing _too_ personal, you feel?”

“Yeah, I don’t want to hear that, anyway,” Courfeyrac said, scrunching his nose. “Keep your shenanigans to yourself.”

“So that’s the good news, folks,” Grantaire said. “The bad news is…”

“That’s not the case on my part,” Courfeyrac finished. “My neighbor and I are friends now, _just_ friends, and I think if he were to find out about the show and, oh Jesus, _listen_ to it, I would be mortified. Like, I would actually melt into the floor, or fling myself into the sun, or something. So I’m keeping chit-chat about him to a minimum, for his privacy.”

“I still don’t understand why you won’t go for it with him,” Grantaire sighed.

“I told you, I’m not one hundred percent sure he’s into me that way,” Courfeyrac explained for what felt like the fiftieth time. “I don’t want to make things weird and then have it be all awkward when we see each other in the lobby or something.”

“Can I at least tell them about the flowers?” Grantaire pleaded. “Pleeeaaase?”

“I mean, it’s not really a big deal, but okay…”

“Not a big deal?” Grantaire guffawed. “Dude has been bringing you flowers every other day for the past two weeks!”

“Every third day,” Courfeyrac corrected, feeling his face grow hot. “He’s just at the farmer’s market a lot, and he knows I have that nice vase our friends got me.”

“I beg to differ, my man,” Grantaire said. “I told Enjolras, and _he_ said Hot Neighbor usually only goes to the market a few times a month. Since he met you, though, he’s been going multiple times a week, _apparently_ only to buy you flowers or catnip.”

Courfeyrac couldn’t help the pleased little smile that broke out on his face. “That doesn’t necessarily mean…”

“Oh, my God, you’re impossible.” Grantaire threw up his arms, decidedly done with the conversation. “Just read the emails.”

“Okay, this one’s from our good friend, C.” Courfeyrac pulled up the email, still feeling warm thinking about Combeferre and his endless bouquets of flowers. Despite his modest denial of any romantic meaning to the gesture, secretly he did have his doubts. The amount of times they saw each other alone was cause for suspicion; Courfeyrac hardly ever saw any of the neighbors on his _own_ floor, let alone the rest of the tenants in the building, so the close proximity excuse didn’t fly.

Still, if he was wrong and asked Combeferre on a _real_ date only to find he just wanted to be friends, the laws of the universe would ensure that they would run into each other _all the time_ , and Courfeyrac would have to move. Again.

He was absolutely overthinking it and he knew it, but there it was. The Too Much gene.

“’Hi Courfeyrac, Grantaire and Yeti,’” Courfeyrac read. “’I hope you’re all doing well. With the holiday season upon us, I hope you don’t mind that my question this week is off-topic. I recently met someone I’m interested in, and I’m pretty sure they’re interested in me, too. We live close to each other and see each other almost every day. I think I want to get them a Christmas present that shows I like them, but that isn’t too big considering I’ve only known them for about a month. Any advice? I know they like the kinds of topics this podcast covers, if that helps. Thanks, C.’”

“I guess this is the romance-themed episode,” Grantaire said roguishly. “I know what I’m thinking, and I’ll bet twenty bucks you’re thinking it, too, Courf.”

“Count of three?”

“One, two, three…”

 _“Mistletoe,”_ they said simultaneously.

“You can’t go wrong with mistletoe,” Grantaire said.

“I mean, it’ll definitely get the message across,” Courfeyrac said, contemplating. “But should they get something else, too?”

“Other than their sweet lips, ready for smoochin’?”

“Yeah, like, a pre-smooch present,” Courfeyrac elaborated. “Something small, but personal, to set the tone. Or are you suggesting C just spring the mistletoe on them apropos of nothing?”

“I, for one, am all about getting accosted by mistletoe out of the blue,” Grantaire said. “The less prepared I am to get kissed, the better.”

“I think the word for that is assault,” Courfeyrac said, fighting back a laugh.

“Well, with _that_ attitude…” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “No, but seriously, don’t do that. What kind of pre-smooch present are you suggesting, Courf?”

“It doesn’t have to be anything crazy or expensive,” Courfeyrac said. “But you’ve been talking to this person a lot, right? Since you see them almost every day? So you should know enough about them to get them something that’s relevant to their interests. They like the kind of stuff we talk about here, start there.”

“So, like, an alien plush toy?” Grantaire suggested.

“Or a werewolf plush toy.”

“Or a zombie plush toy.”

Courfeyrac gasped in revelation. “Or a yeti!”

Yeti, the cat, looked up at him from her position on Grantaire’s lap and let out an inquisitive _mrrrrp_ , and the two of them burst out laughing.

“C, if you get this person a yeti plush toy, don’t be surprised if Courfeyrac shows up one night and steals it,” Grantaire said. “Good luck, dude. Let’s move on to the next question…”

 

 

*************************

 

 

It was snowing, and Courfeyrac was Suffering. His heater, after determinedly holding up through the end of fall and first few weeks of winter, finally wheezed its last breath on the coldest week of the year. Of fucking course.

Combeferre stopped by to borrow some spices, and immediately gave Courfeyrac an alarmed look.

“Woah, it’s like an ice box in here,” Combeferre declared. “Tell me you’re getting the heater fixed soon.”

“The landlord can’t get anyone out here until after Christmas,” Courfeyrac said morosely. He had taken to wearing his warmest gear around the apartment, including gloves, a scarf, and a beanie, to keep the chill at bay. Thankfully, the electric blanket Feuilly had given him kept him warm during the night, and he and Yeti cuddled under it whenever they could, but his nose was perpetually cold and runny and he dreaded shedding his layers of clothing whenever he took a shower.

Combeferre’s eyebrows did the furrowing thing they always did whenever he was thinking through something. “Come hang out at my place. I have mulled wine on the stove.”

“Is that what the spices are for?” Courfeyrac asked, rummaging through his cabinet for the small jars. “Are you sure you should be cooking?”

“I set the fire alarm off _one time_ ,” Combeferre said, holding up a finger for emphasis. “ _once_.”

“Once since I’ve been here,” Courfeyrac pointed out. “Who knows how many times you set it off before?”

“That’s not fair, I have no way of proving my innocence.” Combeferre took the spices from him and swept the door open, gesturing for him to go through. “Are you coming?”

Courfeyrac hesitated. “Are you sure it’s okay? You don’t have any plans, or anything?”

“Most of my family lives out of the country,” Combeferre said. “My only plan for Christmas was going to the Corinth with everyone tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac said brightly, already heading out the door. “Me too, actually.”

Ah, the official Holiday Squad Party. Their annual get-together on December twenty-third was a time-honored tradition, complete with ugly Christmas sweaters, gifts, and, of course, alcohol. This year, they would initiate Combeferre and Enjolras into the festivities, most likely by making them wear light-up antlers and down Fireball shots. Courfeyrac had been looking forward to it all month.

The hallway was warmer than Courfeyrac’s apartment, which was depressing. He spared a thought for Yeti as he locked the door behind him, but he knew she was dozing on the electric blanket in his bedroom, and she also had fur to keep her warm. Lucky her.

“Who did you get for Secret Santa?” he asked Combeferre as they passed into the stairwell. “Unless you got me, then don’t tell me.”

Combeferre laughed, and it reverberated through the stairwell. “Wouldn’t that be a dead giveaway that I got you, then?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”

“I got Bahorel.” Combeferre fished out his keys as they reached the next floor down. “And I still haven’t gotten him anything. Any advice?”

“Hmmm.”Courfeyrac tapped his chin. “Novelty Christmas toilet paper. Or a novelty Christmas wine stopper.”

“Are you serious?” Combeferre laughed as they reached his door.

“Oh, yeah, Bahorel loves novelty stuff,” Courfeyrac said, stepping in through the door Combeferre held open for him. “You should ask to see his PEZ dispenser collection.”

“Amazing. That man is an enigma.”

Courfeyrac sighed in bliss as the warmth of the apartment washed over him. Combeferre’s apartment smelled like citrus and wine, and Courfeyrac followed the scent to the kitchen after taking off his shoes, smiling at the lights hanging over the windows and the tree twinkling in the corner.

“Look at that, nothing burning,” Combeferre said smugly, following him in.

“Yet,” Courfeyrac said stubbornly, peeking into the large pot on the stove. “This needs more spices.”

Combeferre made a show of popping the lid off the spice jars and dramatically sprinkling in cloves and nutmeg while Courfeyrac nodded in approval.

“That should do it.”

“What would I do without you?” Combeferre picked up a wooden spoon and gently stirred the wine, turning the heat down.

“Have bland drinks?”

He tapped Courfeyrac’s nose with the other end of the spoon. “Cheeky.”

Courfeyrac winked salaciously before he could stop himself, and there they were, flirting again. While Combeferre gave the wine another stir, he twirled around elegantly and removed himself from both the kitchen and the situation.

“Who did you get?” Combeferre asked as Courfeyrac made a beeline for the couch.

“Huh?”

“For Secret Santa.”

“Oh, uh, Cosette,” he replied, unwinding the scarf from his neck. He pulled his beanie off, too, finally warm enough to not need it, and rifled a hand through his hair. “I got her a cute little compact mirror. She said she needed one like a week ago, I hope she hasn’t bought one yet.”

Combeferre emerged from the kitchen and paused, looking at Courfeyrac. He was doing that furrowed thing with his eyebrows again.

“…What is it?” Courfeyrac said, shrugging out of his puffy, too-warm coat.

Combeferre stared at him for a moment longer before seeming to make up his mind about something.

“Wait here,” he said, heading towards his room. “I have something for you.”

“Okay.” Courfeyrac set aside his outer layers, confused, mind whirling. “Wait, did you get me a Christmas present?”

“It’s nothing big,” Combeferre called from the other room.

Courfeyrac tugged at the neck of his cable-knit sweater in distress. “But, I didn’t get you anything!”

Combeferre strode back in, holding a small, red gift bag in one hand and holding the other hand behind his back.

“Like I said, it’s nothing big.” Combeferre sat down next to him and put the bag on the cushion between them. “Open it.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Courfeyrac murmured, picking up the bag. It was fairly light.

“I wanted to, Courf,” Combeferre said, settling his arm on the back of the couch as he watched him rustle through the tissue paper.

 _Don’t make a big deal out of this,_ Courfeyrac told himself firmly. _Don’t you do it. It’s just a friendly gift, just a…_

Courfeyrac froze as the tissue paper fell away from the toy. It was a little bigger than the size of his hand, white and fluffy and with comically large, blue eyes.

A yeti.

He snapped his eyes up to Combeferre, who was smiling fondly at him. What the fuck. _What the fuck._

“Oh, my God,” he said, clutching the plush toy in his hands. “You’re C.” He blinked rapidly as the realization, and all the implications that came with it, came crashing down on him. “ _You're_ C??”

“Yep,” Combeferre said calmly.

“Oh, my God,” Courfeyrac said again, dropping the toy and covering his face with his hands. “Oh, Jesus. Wow. Wow, that is so embarrassing.”

He would unquestionably have to move now. He would have to move far, far away and get about four more cats and live in self-enforced solitude, like Yoda. And he would have to leave the podcast. Grantaire would be angry, but he would understand, eventually.

Warm hands gently enclosed his wrists and pulled them away from his face, which was probably a festive shade of red. Courfeyrac kept his eyes fixed on his lap, too mortified to look anywhere else. The plush toy stared back up at him accusingly.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I knew I should’ve cut those things out of the podcast, but I never thought you’d actually _hear_ any of it, I had _no idea_ —"

“Courf, hey, stop,” Combeferre said, and he didn’t sound angry or judgmental, just calm and nice and gentle, like he always was. Courfeyrac dared to look at him from under his lashes, and he was still smiling, but the furrowed look was back.

“Courfeyrac,” he said slowly. “Think about why I just gave you that. Really think about it.”

Courfeyrac thought about it.

_Oh._

“Oh,” he said faintly, staring wide-eyed at Combeferre, then down at the yeti toy.

“Yeah.” Combeferre tilted his chin up, making his stomach do a little flip. Behind his soft tone and benign demeanor, Courfeyrac thought he in fact seemed somewhat nervous. “I do have the other part of that present, if you want it.”

Courfeyrac’s lips parted in surprise, though he should have seen that coming. He was still a little dumbstruck by the revelation that Combeferre had not only been listening to Courfeyrac swoon over him on the podcast, but had also _returned_ those feelings the entire time. Above the rush of blood in his ears, Courfeyrac could only process the litany of _yes yes yes_ that coursed through his mind.

“Yes,” he breathed, and Combeferre smiled beautifully.

He reached behind his back and pulled out a cluster of mistletoe, tied together at the ends with a red ribbon, and held it over Courfeyrac’s head.

“Mistletoe berries are poisonous, you know,” Combeferre said mildly, eyes darting around Courfeyrac’s face.

Courfeyrac smiled and trailed his hands over Combeferre’s shoulders to settle at the nape of his neck.

“How romantic,” he murmured, tugging him closer until their lips met in a soft, lingering kiss. Combeferre dropped the mistletoe in favor of wrapping his arms around Courfeyrac’s waist, pulling him closer still. Courfeyrac felt melty and warm and perfect.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked into the small distance between them when they pulled apart.

“I thought it might be weird at first, finding out your new neighbor was a listener,” Combeferre admitted. “And then I heard you talk about me on the show, and I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

“Like you did just now,” Courfeyrac said. Combeferre pressed an apologetic kiss to the corner of his mouth. “What made you change your mind?”

“I liked you too much,” Combeferre confessed. “And I had solid evidence you shared my feelings.”

Courfeyrac groaned and buried his face in Combeferre’s shoulder, which shook with laughter.

“Don’t remind me, I’m still embarrassed,” he muttered. Combeferre ran his fingers through his hair soothingly.

“If it makes you feel better,” he said. “To me, _you_ were the Hot Neighbor.”

 

 

*************************

 

 

“Welcome, friends! Welcome homo sapiens, extraterrestrials, and light beings. My name is Courfeyrac—”

“And I’m Grantaire.”

“—And this is Pod Theory. We hope you all had a great holiday, whatever you celebrate. I, for one, had a pretty memorable one.”

“They’re not going to believe this,” Grantaire said. “Like, this is going to blow their minds.”

“I have been. So. Excited. To tell our listeners about this,” Courfeyrac said, grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “So we all know our favorite listener, C, right? Who’s been writing in every week?”

“You know them, you love them.”

“Of course. Well, I found out this week that our beloved C,” Courfeyrac said, pausing in all the right places to give the most dramatic effect to his news. “Is, in fact… Hot Neighbor!”

“That is so fucking wild,” Grantaire exclaimed.

“I know,” Courfeyrac agreed, slamming his hands down on the table. “ _I know_. And hey, guess what? That ‘person’ he said he was interested in? You guys. You _guys_. It was _me_.”

Grantaire literally screamed into the microphone.

“Ow, ow, okay, I’m right next to you, R,” Courfeyrac said.

“Sorry, man, I’m excited for you.”

“Thanks, dude. But yeah, that is real, it’s absolutely not a set-up,” Courfeyrac continued. “I swear we didn’t plan this, I genuinely had _no_ idea he was a listener. His name is Combeferre, by the way, and yeah, it was super embarrassing realizing he heard me gushing over him on the podcast.”

“But the gushing was reciprocated,” Grantaire said. “Oh, tell them about Enjolras.”

“That’s right,” Courfeyrac laughed. “After Combeferre met me and recognized who I was, he put two and two together and realized Grantaire was pining after his good friend, Enjolras, the entire time.”

“Because, apparently,” Grantaire said, pleased. “Enjolras talked to him all the time about his kick-boxing instructor. AKA me.”

“So he brought Enjolras to my house warming party to set them up. Can you _believe_? This is our lives, guys. This is a thing that happened to us. I swear to God.”

“I guess when you research so many conspiracies, you become more likely to be part of one, yourself.” Grantaire turned to Courfeyrac. “So, tell them what happened.”

“I don’t know, shouldn’t we get to the real show?” Courfeyrac said, knowing perfectly well Grantaire wouldn’t let him off the hook. “We’ve talked enough about this already…”

“I think I could hear the ghostly voices of our listeners shouting ‘ _no_ ’ across the veil,” Grantaire said.

“They’re not _dead_.”

“I meant the veil of time, dork. They're yelling at you to tell the story from the future, when this episode gets posted.”

“Well, choose your wording better next time.” Grantaire stared at him expectantly until Courfeyrac relented. “Okay, okay! ‘Ferre, I know you’re listening, so I hope you don’t mind that I’m about to share this. So, it was three days before Christmas, and my heater was broken…”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me at infinite-mirrors.tumblr.com! :) And check out the webcomic version on podtheorycomic.tumblr.com.


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